“Prince Harry”

As soon as Sean got in from the gym that evening he did what he always did. He went to his room, turned on his laptop and logged on to the gay hook-up sites. He was a member of four.

It had become a reflex action for him now and he never questioned it. There had been a time when he logged on with a feeling of anticipation, wondering what new delights the Pandora’s box that was gay London’s sexual McDonalds might offer him.

Occasionally, he had even experienced something bordering on excitement when he was waiting for a reply from someone who he had exchanged several messages with – someone who, he even dared to think, could potentially be the elusive “one.”

These days though the process was nothing more than a release. It was a way of exorcising another day spent fulfilling meaningless tasks, lamely trying to flog yet more advertising space to people who either put the phone down on him, or told him through the contemptuous tone of their voices that he was a scumbag loser.

Logging on to GayRomeo he glanced at the online profiles in his area. 196 and it was only 7pm. What were they all looking for he wondered? Was everyone feeling the same as him? He pictured gay men all across London in a similar situation to himself – sitting on the unmade bed of an overly expensive rented room they had fallen out of that morning, trapped in a constant state of inertia as they scanned endless profiles peremptorily demanding “No Strings Attached”, “XXL cocks” and “no drama queens.”

Perhaps the prospect of another meaningless meet and the opportunity to fling their DNA at a stranger for fifteen minutes before another carb deprived dinner was their only way of feeling alive after another day of selling out to a corporate bitch of a boss.

Sean lit a cigarette and decided not to think about it. His fingers and eyes did the work for him as he quickly typed the reason for being online into the box at the top of his profile. It glared back at him in clinical, bold green letters: “FitBrit28 is online for SEX.” Tossing the laptop across the duvet he went off to the kitchen to fix himself the usual pre-dinner protein shake.

He was interrupted by a loud kissing sound from his bedroom – it was the alarm he had set to alert him to a message on the site. Moving back into his room he sipped at the sickly banana liquid and looked at his screen. The profile name said “Prince Harry.”

Opening up the message he saw that Prince Harry was in fact yet another hot Latin guy of about 26, wearing dark glasses and posing seductively on a white sofa in a soulless white room while he licked his lips lasciviously. They were all professional photos and had clearly been taken either for a porn site, an escort profile or by a lonely sixty year old amateur photographer whose sole social outlet was being a member of a gay camera club in Kennington. Sean’s considerable prior experience of Latin men told him that it was probably all three.

He put down the protein shake and lit another cigarette. His eyes narrowed as he sucked on it like a latter day Joan Crawford eyeing her prey. He opened the message.

“Hi sexy. Wanna fuck?”

Sean fell back on to the bed and sighed. This individual had clearly not had the benefit of Prince Harry’s education, but Sean had long ago given up expecting to find charm school graduates on the internet. It was akin to the probability of finding a monogamous, long-term relationship in the sauna.

He looked at the photos of Prince Harry again. There were 4 of them and in each one he was wearing a different pair of dark glasses. He was on the cusp of replying and telling him that the eyes are the gateway to the soul, but then he clicked on the last picture. Prince Harry was sprawled against a fireplace. As in all the other photos he was wearing a loose fitting shirt, but was naked from the waist down. His right hand swung a gargantuan black dildo in the air like some trophy of war. His left cupped an awe inspiring cock which he modestly referred to in his profile text as “One massive fuck stick.”

Sean stubbed out his cigarette and peered closer at the screen. He could not take his eyes off the huge member as it glistened at him in the light from the open fire. He reached for the keyboard and typed frantically: “Yes, where are you gostoso?”

A reply came back at once. Prince Harry was just down the road in Oval. It was a fifteen minute walk. Sean asked for the address, looked it up on Streetmap and said that he would be there in fifteen to twenty minutes – just enough time to apply some Clarins moisturiser and the magical L’oreal under eye concealer stick which perpetuated the lie that he was 28.

It was only after agreeing to the meet that Sean realised that he should really read Prince Harry’s profile. It was written in huge upper case letters, littered with spelling mistakes and made no discernible attempt at punctuation, but the message was clear:-

I M AN ORDINERY, VERY HOT LATIN GUY WHO OCASIONALY LIKES TO BE A VERY BAD BOY AND FUCK SOME NICE TIGHT ARSE I LIKE TO BE NAUGHTY AND BEND YOU OVER AND FUCK YOU UNTIL YOU CANT TAKE ANY MORE AND SCREAM WITH PLEASURE AND THEN I WILL WIP OUT MY MONSTER FUCK STICK DICK OF DEATH AND I WILL SQUIRRT MY HOT LATIN CUM ALL OVER YOUR FACE AS YOU GORGLE AND SWALLOW AND CHUKE AND BEG FOR MORE IF YOU ARE GOOD YOU WILL GET SOME MORE

Sean paused. He looked at Prince Harry’s pictures again. The familiar arrogance glared back at him. He hesitated and rasped deeply on his cigarette. His eyes drifted up to the top of his profile. Oddly the green letters said that Prince Harry was online this evening because he was searching for a “relationship.” And then he looked at the cock again.

He messaged back: “I am about to leave, but I want you to know that I don’t get fucked. Is that ok? I love your cock and want to worship it though. Are you happy to play?”

The smacking kissing sound filled the room again as another message sprung back: “Sure baby. That is fine. 07792077082. Call when you’re outside because buzzer doesnt work. Cu soon!”

Sean looked at the profile again and paused. He wished he could see Prince Harry’s eyes.

He gagged on one final swig of the protein shake and walked over to his full length mirror and flexed his muscles, still pumped from his gym session. He threw on one of the Fred Perry T-shirts that he always wore for hook-ups and reached for the L’oreal. He scrawled the address down on a piece of paper and added Prince Harry’s phone number to his I-phone under the name “Latin Trade.”

Only as he was rushing up Clapham road in the rain did he realise that he had not asked what Prince Harry’s real name was.